Late nights， with summer moths¹ clinging

    to the screens & the shadows of the Old Great

    flickering² across the tv screen， suddenly，

    there would be Charlie's inquisitorial head

    peering in the window， the shock of white hair，

    followed by the heart-stopping shock

    of greeting. Just passing through， he'd say，

    and——seeing as the light was on——

    thought we might have ourselves a talk.

    Did I ever have time enough for Charlie？

    Usually not. The story of my life，

    of the one， as Chaucer says of someone，

    who seems always busier than he is.

    Then， abruptly³， & discourteously⁴，

    death put a stop to Charlie's visits.

    Summer moths collect still at the windows.

    Then leaves & winter ice. Then summer moths

    again. Each year， old ghost， I seem

    to miss you more and more， your youth spent

    with Auden & the Big Ones， words——

    theirs， yours——helping you survive

    a brutal⁵ youth. Too late I see now

    how you honored me like those hidden

    gods of old who walk among us like

    the dispossessed， and who， if you are

    among the lucky ones， tap at your window

    when you least expect to ask you for a cup

    of water and a little of your time.